Page:Harper's New Monthly Magazine - v109.djvu/907

Rh "Is he dead?" she asked the trooper who was driving.

"No, miss. Will you take him in?"

"Yes," she said. "Bring him."

The driver drew rein, wheeled his team, and drove into the great gateway. "Hospital's plum full, ma'am," he said. "Wait; I'll carry him up. Head's bust a leetle—that's all. A day's nussin' will bring him into camp again."

"I want him put in my bed," whispered the boy, as the trooper staggered up-stairs with his burden, leaving a trail of dark wet spots along the stairs.

"All right, son," panted the trooper, following his small guide.

The bandmaster became conscious when they laid him on the bed, but the concussion troubled his eyes so that he was not certain that she was there until she bent close over him, looking down at him in silence.

"I thought of you—when I was falling," he explained, vaguely—"only of you."

The color came into her face; but her eyes were steady. She set the flaring dip on the bureau, and came back to the bed. "We thought of you, too," she said.

His restless hand, fumbling the quilt, closed on hers; his eyes were shut, but his lips moved, and she bent nearer to catch his words:

"We non-combatants get into heaps of trouble—don't we?"

"Yes," she whispered, smiling; "but the worst is over now."

"There is worse coming."

"What?"

"We march—to-morrow. I shall never see you again."

After a silence she strove gently to release her hand; but his held it; and after a long while, as he seemed to be asleep, she sat down on the bed's edge, moving very softly lest he awaken. All the tenderness of innocence was in her gaze, as she laid her other hand over his and left it there, even after he stirred and his unclosing eyes met hers.

"Celia!" called the boy, from the darkened stairway, "there's a medical officer here."

"Bring him," she said. She rose, her lingering fingers still in his, looking down at him all the while; their hands parted, and she moved backward slowly, her young eyes always on his.

The medical officer passed her, stepping quickly to the bedside, stopped short, hesitated, and bending, opened the clotted shirt, placing a steady hand over the heart.

The next moment he straightened up, pulled the sheet over the bandmaster's face, and turned on his heel, nodding curtly to the girl as he passed out.

When he had gone, she walked slowly to the bed and drew the sheet from the bandmaster's face.

And as she stood there, dry-eyed, mute, from the dusky garden came the whispering cry of the widow-bird, calling, calling to the dead that answer not.